Come What May
by Firefly Wolf
Summary: MoulinRouge!AU Elsa is a tired prostitute desperate for another life, in another world. Paris is not a petty place for pretty girls. Anna is an aspiring writer, full of life and wonder. Their fates are irreversibly entwined when they meet at the brothel show house, the Moulin Rouge, the most famous whore house in Paris, France, and even Europe.


The bed creaked.

It was something Elsa found particularly irritating; how it creaked and whined like a kicked dog, thudding against the wall loudly, rocking against the floorboards on spindly legs. So she stared blandly at the ceiling, examining the way the cracks in the paint made patterns. Some days the cracks looked like a fleeing rabbit, ears laid flat against its back as it sprang across the pealing vomit cream. Other days, like today, it looked like a bird in flight. Wings outstretched, the wind pushing up against its feathers. Gloriously free.

Her client grunted something in her ear, bringing her back down to earth. She moaned half-heartedly, shifting her flesh around in a pathetic imitation of someone engaged with the whole sordid affair, her pale blonde hair wispy around her forehead. The room stank of the stale reek of sweat and sex, and the stagnant heat of summer hung heavy around them. From the open window came the sounds of the busy street below: the clatter of hooves against cobble; the shouts of women and men from the market; the barking of the pack of dogs that hung around the butchers on the corner. Elsa wondered, vaguely, what was on at the theatre. She hoped it was something grand.

Her client finished with a swift thrust and a groan, slumping lifelessly over her limp body, crushing her ribs under his weight. A sickening wave of relief washed over her like nausea, forcing a sigh out of her, which puffed against the thin grey hair at the sides of her client's head. He was panting hard, his wine-stained breath wafting over her like a hot drape, filling her with the age-old feeling of disgust she couldn't quite shake from her bones.

He shifted back and clambered off the bed awkwardly. She watched, hiding her vague amusement as he stood, pulling his trousers up from his ankles and struggling to get the waist over his gut. He grunted, trying and failing to tuck in his shirt. One broad, sticky hand dug into his inner coat pocket, drawing a white handkerchief out with a flourish. He wiped his shining brow, cheeks flushed with the summer heat.

"Shall I expect you next Thursday, Monsieur?" She asked politely, sitting up and draping her silk robe over her pale body, drawing it close to herself to hide the marks from his… activities. _To hide my shame._ She prided herself on being able to speak like a lady.

"Indeed." He replied as curtly as he could while still struggling to catch his breath. _He has never been much of a talker, _she thought, _which is unusual for a politician._

He left soon after that, closing the door to her private room softly. She allowed her countenance to drop, glad that he had been her last client of the day. She glanced up at the ticking clock, watching the pendulum rock back and forth, back and forth. The rhythm was familiar. It was six o'clock – she could hear the cathedral bells chiming in the hour.

She got to her feet, tying her robe about her securely before grabbing her half empty wineglass, heading to the balcony and leaning out, surveying the streets below. She can feel his essence wet her inner thighs, but she does nothing about it, save wipe it using a handkerchief. It doesn't matter to her. It isn't as though anything would take root.

Waiting. She was always waiting.

She took a sip of wine, examining the winding streets below. She had vague, cold memories of life there: the grime and the filth and the agony of hunger gnawing at her belly like a savage beast. Better yet, the sting of the icy cold cobbles in winter against her bare feet. It made her spine shudder at the thought. She learnt then how the cold couldn't bother her. Paris was not a petty place for pretty girls without homes. It was raw. It was hard. It was hell.

And then she'd sold her virginity for too low a price to some scumbag in an alley; savouring the stale bread she'd been able to scrabble together with the couple francs she'd earned. Eating it crumb by crumb until it'd been gone. But she'd been young enough, so she'd sold her virginity three or four times, earning even more money, allowing her for once to beat off the cold with a ragged blanket.

When nothing came of it, she'd continued, lingering in alleyways and on street corners for willing men to pay her way.

A knock on the door drew her out of her thoughts. She turned, fixing a knowing smirk on her face as Hans, her… benefactor, entered the room. He was grinning, red sideburns bright and tidy as he closed the door behind him.

"My Queen! You did it again." He bowed low before her, a mockery of the truth. He owned her. She was _his _property. There was a twinkle of it in his knowing green eyes as he straightened. She was always reminded of a shrew, or a weasel, when she looked at him.

"I trust he enjoyed himself?" She slinked towards him, wineglass balanced in one hand, playing along.

"Immensely." He chirped and he trotted to the leftover wine and glass, pouring it out. "Your share is tucked safely in my vest." He patted his chest comfortably, sighing before taking a gulp of wine. She watched with absentminded distaste as some dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.

He wiped it away quickly, avoiding her gaze.

Her hands itched at the thought of the money. She wanted it. _Needed_ it. She had her own sins to pay for.

She'd long ago forgotten to be ashamed.

Half an hour later she was on her knees, trying to remember when the world became so despairingly empty. Hans' fingers were wrapped tightly in her hair, tugging her closer, the grip almost painful against her skull. Their meetings often ended this way – he never touched her anywhere except her head, and where his manhood invaded her mouth, pushing down into her throat with his every thrust. She had been trained not to gag.

She felt the iron-hard twitch of his clothed stomach touch her forehead, and he grunted something. She failed to comprehend it over the sound of her own withering disgust.

She wasn't sure if it was aimed at herself or him.

He finished with a sharp intake of breath. She swallowed, licking her lips and looking up into his flushed face through lidded eyes. The sultry look was due more to the awkward angle than anything else. He stared back, panting slightly, before his gloved hand traced the edges of her face, green eyes inscrutable.

Hans buttoned up his trousers swiftly and left, placing the money he owed her from her previous client on the spindly table beside the door.

Elsa got to her feet, glancing at the clock, humming to herself as she stretched out the ache in her legs and lower back. It was twenty to seven. The sun still hung bright in the sky, shedding the summer evening light over the cooling city. The windows were still open, allowing the breeze to cool the sweat that lined her brow. Like fingers, the air brushed through the gaps in her robe; she could feel it against her lower back.

She sighed softly before plucking up her glass of wine, inhaling the dark liquid, enjoying the burning of it as it slid down her throat, dispelling the thickly bitter, salty taste of Hans' release, which was lingering on the back of her tongue. She felt her nose wrinkle.

She took another gulp.

Her hand shook slightly as she reached into a pocket of her robe, drawing out a small silver cigarette box. Fingers fumbled with the catch before it sprang open, revealing her sins. Ten neatly rolled cigarettes stared back at her. They were her lifeline, her saviour. Her greatest enemy.

She plucked one out, placing it between her rouged lips before lighting a rough match from the table beside her.

The first drag was heaven. She could feel it seeping into her bones, swirling inside her and driving all the evil out of her.

She released it like a prayer, watching the smoke spiral out in a misshapen cloud. It hovered over her until she took the second drag, huffing the smoke out of her nose like one of those dragons in the fairy tales. She'd only heard one or two, back in the orphanage before she'd run away. They'd always filled her with such wonder. But she still didn't know if she wanted to be the dragon, or the princess.

There was something about being rescued by a dashing knight that made her hopeful.

But dreams died hard.

The bitter taste of the cigarette was preferable to anything she'd tasted that day, including the wine. It deadened the world around her, making her forget the ache of exhaustion in her bones, and forget the hard knowledge of the future. She'd live every day like this. Every day and every night, surrendering her body to men and women who could pay enough. She hardly thought it was living at all.

Elsa sat herself down on the bed, flicking the ash into an ashtray before lying back, staring up at the ceiling, taking another inhale of that godly cigarette.

She'd tried once, long ago, to end it all. She'd tossed herself over the edge of the Pont du Carrousel. Only, half way down she'd realised with stark terror that she wanted to live. The instinct to survive was strong, sinking its claws into her until she hit the water with an explosion of white, and then darkness.

Somehow, she reached the river's bank and lay exhausted, panting with the agony of it, sobbing into her muddy hand. The rags of her trade had hung about her like an exerted lover, dragging her into the muck and filth of the earth.

She'd realised with a sort of savage pleasure that that's where she'd belonged.

So she'd picked herself up and continued on her way, until Hans had met her in a dark and seedy bar.

From then on she'd been a whore at the famous Moulin Rouge, the greatest brothel and show house in all of France. Or even Europe, or so Hans had said excitedly to her one night as they'd lain on her soiled sheets, the money of the day spread between them.

Elsa finished her cigarette and put out its end in the ashtray, humming softly to herself. She finished off her wine in sedate silence, staring out into the sunset, considering the birds that flew freely above her.

One day. _One day_ she would fly away.


End file.
